


You make the footsteps and I'll follow

by orphan_account



Series: Daemonverse [1]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Daemons, F/M, His Dark Materials - Freeform, M/M, The Golden Compass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson become the best of friends (and maybe even lovers) chasing criminals in the dead of night, and solving cases. There will be fluff, kissing, Daemons, laughter, tears, and an ocean's worth of tea. And with a little meddling, our crime-fighting duo will realize that they're completely in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is where it begins

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who've read this before my edit, I've changed John's lioness daemon to a wolf- I thought it would suit him better.
> 
> This fic was inspired by Blind Author's story, the Republic of Heaven. It's beautifully written, but unfinished. Enjoy!

John Hamish Watson was born a normal child. He was delivered at a healthy weight, from a healthy mother, with a strong daemon by his side. He grew up to be an unassuming child, running around in the dirt, with golden flyaway locks of hair, and sticky fingers. Lyressea was  a normal daemon, growing alongside her human counterpart, flickering (as all children’s daemons did) from bird to cat to dog to pony to snake, trying out as many shapes as she could before they Settled.

_“What do you think you’ll be?” Lyressea stirred. Her whiskers twitched forward, and her delicate chin rubbed at the child’s soft skin._

_“I don’t quite know yet, John. But I’d quite like to settle as something big, something that can run and fight and keep you safe.”_

_John dug his fingers into her sunset-colored fur, feeling the ticklish buzz of a kitten purr, and the barest touch of a lashing tail._

_“You can watch my back, Ree, and I’ll watch yours.”_

_His cat-daemon pressed her forehead firmly into his small palm._

_“That’s what we do, John.”_

She settled as a wolf, at the age of thirteen. John thought she was perfect. His parents were surprised, as their child was an exceptionally gentle boy, and the fierce form his daemon settled into was nothing short of contradictory. His mother’s red squirrel daemon, Miran, chattered nervously at Lyressea when John announced the settling, while his mother fluttered around John, asking him if he felt wrong about the change. His father just patted his hair.

“A wolf, eh, John, my boy? He’ll grow to be a fearsome man, my  dearest- no need to worry. I can see the strength in him.”

Nyrenne, a goshawk, was perched neatly on John’s father’s shoulder. She blinked slowly at him, and inclined her beak. Harry just sniffed, and stroked the sandy back of Alinel, still in her arms, twitching his rabbit-nose.

John became flustered under the eyes of his family, and, with a weak grin, slipped out the house with Lyressea at his heels.

“We’ll be strong and fierce when we grow up, won’t we?”

“Of course! Like those brave soldiers in the films Daddy watches!”

John remembers the yelling and the running. He watched little men duck for cover, and saw the ground explode and heard the guns. He’d seen what soldiers did in Daddy’s films, and they did look brave and strong and fierce. John decides to join the army as a doctor.

**********************************************************************************

Sherlock was born premature, a gasping, wrinkled thing. His daemon was barely moving, and his mother had  passed out from blood loss.

“We’re afraid neither of them will make it,” the doctor stated, palm pressed against an eye. “There’s a very small chance of survival.” His dog daemon whined behind him. Siger Holmes nodded, his face set grimly while Eryth, a massive eagle owl, glared imperiously down from a shoulder. Her amber eyes shone from behind the mass of silver feathers. They were silent. Mycroft wished he could be as strong as Siger.

As soon as the doctor left, Mycroft, age seven, plastered himself to his father’s leg, Erassine tucked away in a pocket in the shape of a mouse.

“Papa, will Mummy get better? Where’s Sherlock? Can I see?”

A strained smile answered Mycroft’s questions.

“Mummy’s going to be okay, I promise you. And so will baby Sherlock, alright? You’ll see them soon.”

***

Sherlock and his daemon, as well as his mother, lasted the night. And then another. And another and another and another, and Mycroft knew everything would be fine, because the doctor started smiling now, and every day, Mycroft would visit and stare at the pink face of the creature that was his new brother, and held his mother's hand while her Mara, a golden caracal, slept on her feet.

***

Her name was Sapphiel, and Sherlock loved her. The two of them would giggle and chase each other through the halls of the manor, barefoot on the soft carpet. Mycroft and his daemon played with them too, even though he was a big boy. But he wasn’t a man yet, which meant he could still join in, until he had to leave for school.

On rainy days, they would go outside, to collect worms and watch the pregnant stormclouds. Sherlock liked to track the movement of the lightning, and he would roar during every thunderclap, trying to outdo the sky in a contest of noise. Sapphiel would roar alongside Sherlock, no matter the form.

“My croft thinks we’re being silly,” yells Sherlock, during one particularly loud boom.

“He says we’ll get sick doing this, and then be really unhappy.”

“Aw, who cares what the pudgy bum thinks? If you get sick, you’ll just get better afterwards, right? And that means you get stronger! “

They giggled softly at the mild curse, and ran, dripping with rainwater and mud into the house.

***

“Mummy, where’s Papa?”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but Papa won’t be here anymore. Some bad men came into our home and made Papa-“

“…”

“Papa’s dead, Sherlock. The police will catch the people who did this. They have their best detectives on the case.”

“Will that bring Papa back?”

“…”

“NO! I DON’T WANT STUPID POLICE-“

_“Sherlock!”_

“-THEY WON’T BRING PAPA BACK AND THE DETECTIVES CAN’T DO IT EITHER-“

“Sherlock, the detectives will find them and the police will make sure they get locked up for a long time. They won’t hurt anyone else, and they sure as heck won’t find you or Mycroft.”

“…will they be locked up without dinner?”

“Yes. No dinner for the bad men.”

Sherlock wants to be a detective. But not like the slow ones that have to follow the laws and stick to procedure. Oh, no. He’ll be a consulting detective- the only one in the world, and the police will ask his advice when they’re out of their depth, which is always, so he won’t get bored. His daemon purrs into his ear.


	2. Enchanted to Meet You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet. John is fascinated by Sherlock and his daemon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm such a lazy writer. I take a super long time to update, but I PROMISE I will not abandon my baby.  
> A million apologies!

John doesn’t notice the plump man seated on the bench as he limps past him, one hand fisted around the curve of his cane and the other lightly brushing the thick golden fur of Lyressea with each step.  It’s a nice day for once, and he can almost forget the stiffness of his shoulder and his aching leg-

“John! It’s me! Mike Stamford!”

He turns, not recognizing him for a moment, and then his eyes land on the chipmunk-

and he remembers being students together, staying up late studying for exams and finishing up papers, getting pissed on cheap alcohol and celebrating barely scraping by their first year-

He grins weakly, and is pulled reluctantly into a conversation.

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

Two sets of ears perk up with interest at those words.

“Really? Who was the first?”

****

John’s first look at the lab in years is filled with nostalgia. The clean white lines and shining glass containers are familiar, even paired with the modern angles of new technology. Lyressea snuffles at the leg of a table and wags her tail.

“Bit different from my day.”

The man at the table glances up.

***

John is more than taken aback at the rapid- fire speed of Sherlock’s words, and the roguish wink he tosses as he leaves, sweeping his coat behind him, his dæmon hidden behind his whirling coat and feet as they exit. Mike’s glasses glimmer merrily as he looks up from inspecting a vial of what looks to be blood. John is sure he glimpses something with paws as the man leaves, and resolves to look harder next time.

Lyressea stares after them with bare curiosity, and John feels a strange tugging sensation that disappears as soon as he notices it.

***

That night in his bedsit, under the weak light of a single lamp, he consults his daemon.

“That Sherlock character…”

Lyressea blinks slowly, and tilts her muzzle, thinking.

“He’s _wild_ , that’s for sure. I dunno. He’s like us, but- not like us at the same time. It’s -“

She breaks off, frustrated. Her eyes, moon- yellow, search his face. She tries again.

“He’s big. Larger than life. Like when he enters a room, it’s impossible to not notice him. But he can hide, too- he’s really good at hiding- I can tell. And his daemon…”

She stops, growling. John flaps his hand at her, waving her towards his bed. The mattress dips with her weight, and she settles over his thighs and abdomen.

They lie there for a while, thinking about nothing in particular, until Lyressea sighs.

“He’ll be good for you, John. I know it. You need someone. I do, too. Wolves are pack creatures, and we’ve been too long without a pack.”

It’s an unspoken decision. That’s how well they know each other.

***

The Afghan sun is blazing above him, despite the lateness of the day. John’s hair matches Lyressea’s coat, an almost blinding white- gold. There’s shouting in the distance. A couple of his teammates are having a good- natured argument about Doctor Who. John feels like joining them, seeing as he’s grown up watching the show, but can’t be arsed to get up.

John is wearing his trousers and boots, but is wearing only a worn, sandy colored t-shirt in the heat. Lyressea pants at his feet.

“Watson!”

John startles at his name, whipping his head around to see who it was, then relaxes nearly instantly when he does.

“Hey, Watson.” Bill Murray lopes towards him, his dæmon, a German Shepherd loping along at his heels.

John grunts in acknowledgement.

“We’l l be on leave in a couple days.  Be nice to get back home." They sit quietly,as the debate grows louder. Somebody's managed to srounge up an old radio, and several casually dressed soldiers are milling about, chatting carelessly. Bill jerks his chin in their direction. Bill makes a few more light jabs at his age and his inability to "get it up". "Not feeling it today? Missing the action, eh, Three Continents Watson?” 

John laughs at this innuendo, and Lyressea’s panting manages to take on a note of pride. Three continents indeed.

“But me? I’m just happy I get to see the missus again after such a long time.”

John smiles tightly. They have no one.

***

A black cab rolls up as John reaches the steps of 221B. The tall man elegantly steps out, tugging off his gloves.

They exchange a quick greeting. He asks John to call him Sherlock.

John brushes the tips of his fingers over Lyressea’s forehead, and peers around Holmes’ coat, trying to see his dæmon as the younger man knocks on the door. A black panther is standing there, amber eyes gleaming in the evening light. He can make out the rosettes on its coat, despite the hue of its fur.

“She’s a melanistic jaguar. Panthers are a name given to any large cat with a melanistic coat- mainly jaguars, leopards, and the jaguarundi.”

Lyressea noses forward to greet the other dæmon and is ignored while the door opens to reveal a fragile- looking woman dressed in purple. She reaches up to hug Sherlock and ushers them in, introducing herself as Mrs. Hudson. John likes this small matron. Her dæmon, a white housecat with brown patches, walks alongside the group as they go up the stairs. The doctor can hear his soft voice as he greets Sherlock and John’s dæmons.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Sapphiel. It’s been quite a while since I saw you last. You couldn’t have dropped by to talk about the flat?”

 “Sherlock and I were busy.” Her voice is low and smooth, not unlike Sherlock’s sonorous tones.

Auriel hisses and boxes her ears.

“For shame! I haven’t seen you in _ages_ , and you know how much Martha dotes on your boy! We assumed the worst when you went a full seven months without a single hello! just look at the state of him- he needs someone to feed him up!”

Sapphiel’s reply is quiet. “He won’t listen to me when I tell him to eat-“

The cat turns to Lyressea.

“Hello, I’m Auriel. Pleased to meet you. It’s nice to see a new face.”

Dimly, John can feel Lyressea’s amusement in the back of his mind as the dæmons speak by the staircase.

“It’s nice. Yes, very nice indeed. Once we clean up this rubbish-“

“I’ve already taken the liberty of moving in-“

The air thickens awkwardly, and Sherlock whirls about, stacking books and firmly stabbing a pile of letters to the mantle with a sturdy knife.

 _Lovely,_ He thinks. _Could this get any more awkward?_

***

John is lost as the grey haired man bounds up the stairs, silver fox by his foot. He exchanges words with Sherlock, who keeps his cool composure until the newcomer leaves. The lashing tail of his excited dæmon gave him away, though, and the two celebrate for a couple seconds, bathed in the light of the police cars. _There’s been a fourth? What was that supposed to mean? What note?_

The  army doctor ignores it and picks up a paper, putting it back down after he reads one of the headlines. _Serial suicides._ London was as much a warzone as Afghanistan. _So much for adjusting to civilian life._

***

Everything slows down those last few seconds, when Sherlock comes back up for his gloves.

“Would you like to see some more?”

“Oh, _god_ yes.”

He’s never seen Ree so excited.

***

“Yeah, but the police don’t consult amateurs.” Lyressea gives him a warning nudge with her head as Sapphiel narrows her eyes.

His left hand tingles as Sherlock fixes him with a stare.

Okay, apparently things could get more awkward.

But then- his deductions-

“ _Brilliant_.” He hadn’t meant for that to slip out.

Sherlock is stunned. It’s almost as if he’s never heard a compliment before.

“You really think so?”

John doesn’t hesitate this time.

 _“Amazing._ Absolutely _fantastic._ ”

“That’s not what most people say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.” They laugh a bit too hard at that. The giggles trail off as the car rolls to a stop.

-

John tries, and fails, to not look at her knees. But glance he did. Her dæmon, a small spotted wildcat (ocelot?), hisses at him. Lyressea manages to whuffle an amused bark as they pass.

***

John doesn’t know how to prove a point. But he gives it a go. But then _Sherlock_ starts with his deductions, and he’s blown away for the hundredth time that day. And apparently, his brain has severed all contact from his mouth because-

“ _Fantastic.”_

“Did you know you do that out loud?”

“I’m. Sorry- I can stop if-“

“No, it’s…good.”

_

Nobody follows the mad genius as he dashes out.

Pink?

***

“You’re _very_ loyal _very_ quickly, Doctor Watson.”

The massive Eastern Imperial Eagle shifts her wings from her perch atop the man’s shoulder. John hopes she accidentally smacks him in the face.

“Well, of _course_ we’re loyal! I’m a fucking wolf! We hunt and live in goddamn _packs_! We’ve been so alone, and now that we’ve found someone _exciting_ , we’re not going to let him go!”

Lyressea’s spine is bristling with golden fur. she looks murderous.

John is flabbergasted. Dæmons don’t really speak to other people- especially menacing strangers who called themselves the archenemy of your prospective flatmate and offer you money to spy on the aforementioned flatmate.

 But he’s never seen Ree this angry before.

The man laughs. He isn’t threatened at all.

“Yes, _Canis lupus lupus_ , is it? Eurasian wolf? Strange that you’d have a dæmon like that in modern- day London. Did you know, a man with a wolf dæmon would be viewed as a warrior in cultures like the Tartars? They are the physical embodiment of our souls, and wolves are one of the most efficient predators to be found in nature. So. What does that say about you, _Doctor_ Watson? After all, one _rarely_ sees such forms outside of the Tartars.”

Lyressea answers with a snarl. The eagle looks down her beak, nonplussed. She stares at them unblinkingly.

John’s phone blips for the second time. He looks at the screen.

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

When he looks up, the man’s disappeared, and the woman is standing behind him, smiling down at her device. The thin form of a black snake is curled around her wrist. Its tongue flickers out, tasting the air.

***

He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Did he just send a text to the _murderer_? And did the murderer call _back_?

Sherlock, in the meantime, tosses a pink suitcase onto a chair. Sapphiel rumbles with annoyance as she peers into it. Her black body is bracketed by Sherlock’s bent legs as his eyes flicker over the contents. Lyressea curiously noses a shirt.

Sherlock’s dry announcements roll off his tongue. John continues to be shocked by the madman.

“Do people usually think you’re the murderer?”

They go out for dinner.

***

John halfheartedly protests as the candle is set on the table, but he gives up under the onslaught of Angelo’s optimistic cheerfulness. He can feel Lyressea’s mirth, and pokes her soft side with his toe. A startled hiss sounds from beneath the table. John’s heart pounds. He nearly touched Sherlock’s dæmon! He looks over at the man in question. Sherlock is too calm. A tic in his jaw and the tautness of his white throat give him away as he stares out the window.

“I’m sorry, it was an accident-“

Sherlock waves it off.

John tries to move on to another subject.

“So you’re single, like me.”

The level of awkwardness has increased tenfold. Both of the dæmons are holding in their laughter while John’s ears burn red with embarrassment. Sherlock is speechless for a second.

“John. While I’m flattered by your interest, I-“

“It’s fine! It’s all fine!”

***

They collapse against the wall, giggling madly. John sucks in lungfuls of air and watches the dæmons. His Lyressea is panting helplessly, leaning against the side of Sherlock’s Sapphiel. The other dæmon is peering down at the canine head. John thinks the panther is holding in her amusement. Her whiskers twitch .

Mrs. Hudson shuffled tearfully towards them.

***

“Seriously? _Him_? A _Junkie_? Have you met this guy?”

Sherlock leaned into John’s space, his face pale in the light. His eyes pierced John. Lestrade watched from a short distance.

“John.”

“Yeah, but-“

He stared pointedly.

“No. _You_? Seriously?”

Sapphiel cut in sharply. “Oh, shut up.”

***

Sherlock was mesmerizing to watch. He spun his deductions, with the occasional input from his dæmon, while everyone else watched. Then he disappeared.

John felt Lyressea’s mirth, warm and floating, ticking his insides.

“What?”

“Could you be even more obsessed? He’d enchanted you from the very moment you set eyes on that lunatic. And now that he leaves, you’re just going to stand here?”

John watches the police officers trickle out the door. The laptop beeps softly.

“He went out for a bit of air-“

“John. I know you’ve only known him for- what, a few hours? But you know Sherlock never does anything for good reason, especially just stepping outside for a bit of _fresh air_. He’s onto something.”

The laptop chirps cheerfully. There’s a moving dot. The murderer.

John rushes out, tugging on his coat, Lyressea hounding his heels.

He had a cab to catch.

“Taxi!”

***

Sherlock thought there would be more to this mystery, but in the end, it was hardly a challenge. He stood up and walked to the door. The man nearly insulted his intellect, with his halfhearted threats and fake gun.

“Don’t you want to know, Mister Holmes?”

The cab driver’s opossum chattered tauntingly.

Sapphiel froze, eyes narrowed.

“ _No_ , Sherlock!”

But he was already turning.

“Sherlock, don’t do this! If you’re wrong- Sherlock!”

He held a pill delicately between his long fingers, turning it this way and that in the flickering lights.

“If you’re wrong, I die too!”

That made him pause. The game and his soul struggled for dominance. The cab driver slowly raised his hand.

“NO!”

Her cry was drowned out by the thundering crack of a gunshot and the tinkling of shattered glass.

***

“Good shot.”

“Yes, must’ve been.”

“You just shot a man.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t a very good man. Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.”

“You should’ve seen the route he took us.”

They cracked up, whooping happily in the clear night. Their dæmons padded quietly behind them.

“Stop- stop it, no giggling at crime scenes!”

His laughter trailed off as he noticed the black car. The man with the umbrella stepped out.

“Yes, Mummy would be so pleased.”

“So your childish feud is an actual childish feud?

“You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

“Yes. No. God, no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta or britpicker. I wrote this all by my lonesome self, so if anyone wants to do a thing, please tell me how to do the thing because I suck at doing things.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you'll stick with me to the end of this story, and maybe even the series!  
> Any and all suggestions are welcome! (you can talk to me on my tumblr, at wholockedandproud.tumblr.com)
> 
> Reviews make a happy writer, and a happy writer will update more often!


End file.
